PS 

2789 


U.C.I. 


BETTINK   BECAME -A  WOMAN. 


BETTING 


LAURA  EVERINGHAM  SCAMMON 


PRESS   OF 

HL'DSON-KIMBERLY    PUB.  CO. 
KANSAS   CITY,    MO. 


PS 


COPYRIGHTED  18!>4 

BY 

LAURA  KVERIMGHAM  SCAMMON. 


fHERK  came  a  day, 
1    I    'j     As  to  brown  buds  come  the  blithe  airs  of  Mav. 

When  my  young  soul 
Ope'd  to  the  sunshine  of  thy  sweet  control. 

I  dared  not  own 
The  mastery,  then,  of  e'en  thy  lightest  tone. 

Thy  smile,  thy  kiss — 
Do  all  souls  know  how  sweet  surrender  is  ? 

Thy  whisper  low — 
"My  love  shall  hold  thee,  sweet,  nor  let  thee  go," 

By  right  divine 
Made  me  thine  own  forever,  only  thine. 

Two  lilies  fair, 
Breathing  one  tender  fragrance,  bless  the  air; 

And  minstrelsy 
Blends  two  soft  strains  in  one  full  harmony; 

And  holy  night 
From  moon  and  stars  pours  one  pure,  perfect  light. 

So  would  I  be 
Not  thine,  not  thine,  dear  love,  but  part  of  thee. 

Then — but  no  more  ! 
Faith  sits  i'l  ashes  at  my  heart's  shut  door. 

As  God  's  above, 
There  's  naught  within  but  my  dead,  coffined  love. 

L.  K.  S. 


BETTINE. 

Bettine  had  a  lover. 

To  this,  however,  I  offered  no  objec 
tion;  having  a  lover  is  an  important  part 
of  a  girl's  education — it  cannot  be  neg 
lected  with  impunity. 

In  Bettine's  case,  I  have  come  to  re 
gard  the  lover  highly,  as  an  assistant 
disciplinarian.  Even  when  he  has  mul 
tiplied  himself  indefinitely,  I  have  found 
it  best  to  work  with  rather  than  against 
him,  sometimes,  in  spite  of  himself,  to 
make  of  him  an  accomplice. 

Bettine  came  naturally  enough  by  this 
last  lover  of  hers,  as  she  has  come  by 
many  another.  It  may  not  be  said  that 
any  particular  type  of  hero  is  enthralled 
by  her  witcheries,  or  that  any  is  excluded 
from  her  transient  favor.  The  callow 
poet,  the  ancient  beau,  the  dry-as-dust 
scientist,  the  man  of  the  world,  preacher, 


8  Bettine. 

cynic,  dainty  dude,  and  picturesque  fish- 
erboy,  each,  according  to  the  mood  which 
he  may  insj  ire  in  the  girl,  regards  her 
as  the  one  earthly  impersonation  of  his 
bright  ideal.  She  gives  to  each  adorer 
his  little  day,  then  all  is  to  her  as  though 
it  had  never  been — or  so  she  fondly 
dreams. 

To  flit  as  flits  the  butterfly,  hither  and 
yon,  with  no  store  of  honey  as  wage;  to 
flit  and  forget,  and  still  go  flitting  and 
forgetting,  yet  to  bear  ever  the  heart  of 
childhood,  tender,  sweet,  and  true,  this  is 
the  paradox  of  my  Bettine. 

It  may  be  that  she  is  not  phenome 
nally  good,  according  to  the  established 
standards,  it  may  be  that  she  is  not  even 
phenomenally  good-looking;  but  she  ac 
cepts  herself  as  nature  made  her  and 
thinks  no  more  about  it.  For  this  I  like 
the  girl. 

I  cannot  fancy  what  Bettine  would 
do  with  beauty;  it  would  not  suit  her — it 
is  too  commonplace.  She  is  so  much 


Bettine.  9 

more  charming  without  it— this  graceful, 
brown,  ardent  young  creature,  upon 
whom  the  eyes  of  all  men  rest  with 
strange  delight. 

Can  it  be  that  the  coming  years  have 
power  to  destroy  those  fine  curves,  that 
the  lithe  form  may  develop  into  the  stout, 
every-day  figure  of  an  ordinary  woman? 
The  soft  and  subtle  glow  that  is  almost 
a  radiance,  will  that  cheapen  or  disap 
pear,  and  the  delicate  chin  and  large 
mobile  lips,  will  they  lose  their  grace 
and  sweetness,  growing  coarse  and  at  the 
same  time  weak?  The  bird-like  buoy 
ancy  we  all  adore,  will  that  degenerate 
into  feeble  flippancy,  and  the  angelic 
gravity  into  sullen  gloom  or  flabby  dis 
content?  Nay,  I  believe  it  not.  The 
envious  earth  may  hide  Bettine  in  her 
bosom;  the  great  green  sea,  white-lipped, 
may  kiss  her  cold  sweet  limbs  to  rest; 
but  old  Time  himself  shall  never  rob 
this  favorite  child  of  her  ineffable  charm. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  airiness  and  piquancy 


i  o  Bettine. 

of  the  girl  that  is  most  irresistible.  She 
reacts  to  everything  in  nature,  sensitive 
and  responsive  to  its  most  subtle  moods. 
She  fits  into  any  landscape  as  a  part  of 
it  and  not  a  protest.  She  adapts  herself 
insensibly  to  any  and  all  circumstances 
and  does  not  know  how  to  be  discon 
tented.  She  has  a  God- like  love  of  giv 
ing  happiness;  it  is  an  effulgence,  an  in 
carnation  of  heaven's  best  thought  for 
man. 

She  is  as  variable,  withal,  and  quite 
as  irresponsible,  as  her  first  fond  love, 
the  sea.  Like  the  sea,  her  eyes  are  grey, 
or  blue,  or  green,  brooding  or  beaming, 
as  the  hour  is  dark  or  bright.  Her  hair 
is  a  cloud — a  darkly  flying  cloud  with 
gleams  of  unsteady  sunshine  filtered 
through. 

I  amuse  myself,  sometimes,  by  tracing 
the  various  moods  of  nature  as  reflected 
in  Bettine.  Now  she  is  like  the  newr 
moon,  delicate,  timid,  fearful  of  being 
seen;  now  like  the  full  moon,  obscuring 


Bettine.  1 1 

all  things  else  by  its  own  brilliance;  now 
like  a  dog-clay  morning,  all  fog  and  mist, 
with  a  sun,  like  copper,  somewhere  over 
head;  now  dancing  to  the  rhythm  of  her 
own  glad  pulses,  like  the  sun  on  Easter 
morning.  Elusive  and  enticing  she  may 
be,  as  the  faint  breath  of  shower-washed 
mignonette;  then  sweetly  serious,  de 
vout  as  a  tall  white  lily  bending  to  the 
fragrant  hush  of  early  dawn.  Now  she 
is  serene  and  open  as  the  wide  blue  sky, 
gay  as  the  skimming  swallows;  now 
gloomy  and  restless  as  the  waves  before 
the  wind,  with  hints  of  undeveloped  tem 
pests  near  at  hand. 

Every  one  who  would  not  cruelly  mis 
understand  must  recognize  these  moods 
in  her  as  pure  reflections  of  nature  — 
whose  child  she  is. 

"Is — is."  I  am  constantly  saying  is 
and  never  was  of  any  grace  or  charm  of 
my  Bettine.  Yet  my  thought  of  her  is 
disturbed  by  vague  forebodings.  As  she 
has  been  those  few  free  years,  I  would 


1 2  Bet  tine. 

that  she  might  remain — frank  and  brave, 
uncontrolled  as  sportive  mermaidens  in 
their  coral  caves,  strange  to  introspec 
tion  or  soulful  secrets  as  the  wide-blown 
lotus  on  the  lake,  opening  to  heaven  her 
heart  of  gold,  giving  unstintedly,  uncon 
sciously  to  all  that  pass  her  way,  as  her 
Creator  has  bestowyed.  I  still  hope  this, 
but  it  is  in  the  face  of  fears. 


All  men  are  not  content  to  be  as  sails 
that  in  an  hour  slip  beyond  our  view,  and 
this  last  lover  caused  me  much  uneasiness. 
Already  he  had  tarried  three  whole 
months,  and  although  she  pouted  and 
protested  once  and  again,  he  held  to  his 
post,  and  Bettine  endured  him.  Endur 
ance  was  not  one  of  her  virtues,  and  any 
thing  like  an  ineffectual  pout  or  protest 
I  had  never  seen  before  from  the  non 
chalant  Bettine.  If  she  were  no  longer 
satisfied  with  Hugo,  why  did  she  not 
send  him  adrift  as  she  had  sent  adrift 
many  another?  This  I  could  not  under- 


Bettine,  1 5 

stand.  I  hoped  it  might  be  a  passing 
phase,  at  worst,  but  surely  the  girl  was 
no  longer  her  free  and  joyous  self.  There 
were  signs  of  subjugation,  such  as  might 
-in  time  change  the  entire  nature,  causing 
it  to  reflect  from  but  one  side,  in  response 
to  a  single  influence.  Even  with  me  she 
was  restless  and  uncertain — my  loving 
little  Bette! 

One  night  she  came  to  me  as  I  sat  on 
the  low  porch  that  faces  the  sea,  smoking 
my  pipe  and  lookingat  the  moon.  Slowly 
and  sadly  its  light  was  being  quenched 
in  a  dim,  watery  cloud,  as  may  be  lost 
the  one  great  hope  of  a  darkened  life. 
The  air  was  thick  and  salty,  and  lighted 
at  intervals  by  far-away  flashes  of  elec 
tricity.  There  was  no  wind,  but  I  could 
look  over  the  rocky  point  between  me 
and  the  sea,  where  played  a  phosphores 
cent  light  along  the  shore.  There  would 
be  a  storm. 

Bettine  stood  behind  my  chair  and  slid 
an  arm  about  my  neck.  "I  am  so  tired 


1 6  Bel  fine. 

of  everything,"  said  my  dove-eyed  one. 
"I  'm  tired  of  every  single  thing  in  this 
big,  bad,  old  world.  Tell  me  a  story, 
grandsire." 

Then  down  on  her  knees  at  my  side, 
cradling  me  in  her  young,  strong  arms, 
she  rocked  to  and  fro  with  little  angry 
meanings,  like  summer  gusts. 

My  heart  fell  as  I  held  her  fast  in 
the  hollow  of  my  arm  and  petted  her  like 
the  troubled  babe  she  seemed. 

"  What  is  it,  Bette?  "  I  asked.  "  Have 
you  and  Hugo  been  quarreling?  " 

"Yes;  he  is  so  stubborn;  he  makes 
me  frantic.  We  cannot  abide  each  other." 

Never  before  had  it  been  like  this. 

I  could  feel  that  my  Bettine  was 
slipping  away  from  me,  and  the  smoke 
smarted  in  my  eye,  bringing  a  tear  to 
my  cheek. 

"What  sort  of  a  story  will  you  have, 
Bettine?" 

"  Oh  !  anything  you  like  —  a  ghost 
story,"  said  the  girl. 


Bettine.  1 7 

"  The  story  of  the  Flying  Dutchman  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not ;  you  have  told  me  that 
half  a  hundred  times." 

"  Shall  it  be  of  the  fire-ship  that  ap 
pears  yonder,  along  the  coast,  before  a 
fatal  storm  ? " 

"  I  know  all  those  things  by  heart — and 
by  vision  too,  grandsire,  as  well  as  you. 
Tell  me  something  I  have  never  heard," 
she  cried  impatiently  ;  "  something  new, 
and  horrible,  and  true  !  " 

"  I  might  tell  you  of  an  experience  of 
my  own  during  the  war — " 

"Is  it  true,  and  very  shocking  ?  " 

I  was  silent  a  moment,  thinking, 
not  of  the  story,  but  of — other  shocking 
things. 

"  Well,  tell  it,  tell  it!"  she  cried  im 
petuously.  The  two  hands  that  I  held 
in  mine  were  cold  and  fluttering,  and  two 
wild  eyes  swept  the  sea  and  sky.  Never, 
never  had  I  seen  the  child  like  this. 

"  It  was  in  '61,"  I  began,  "in  the  Chick- 
ahominy — 


1 8  Bettine. 

But  the  smoke  from  my  pipe  was  in 
the  other  eye,  now,  and  another  tear 
rolled  down  my  cheek.  Surely  the  lov 
er's  discipline  was  too  severe  for  Bettine. 

"  It  was  a  very  dark  night,"  I  began 
again,  "  and  I  was  stationed  in  the  woods 
as  picket  guard — 

"Grandsire,  do  you  see  the  lightning?" 
Bettine  broke  in,  grasping  my  wrist,  but 
I  paid  no  heed. 

"  The  wood  in  front  of  us  was  alive  with 
soldiers,  only  awaiting  a  signal  to  fire 
upon  us,"  I  went  on.  "  I  could  hear  the 
clocks  striking  the  midnight  hour  over 
in  Richmond — 

"  In  Fairyland,  grandsire ;  why  don't 
you  say  in  Fairyland?  And  they  were 
bells  that  you  heard,  a  million  tiny,  tink 
ling  bells.  You  are  so  dull  and  prosy 
to-night,  grandsire. 

"  It  might  as  well  have  been  the  bells 
of  Fairyland,  child,  for  we  never  came 
any  nearer  to  them.  But  this  night  we 


Bcttine.  1 9 

were  in  the  dense  forest  and  a  storm  was 
gathering,  as  heavy  a  storm  as  is  brew 
ing  over  yonder  where  the  lightning 
slashes  the  sky — 

"  See  how  it  is  leaping  at  us,  sire ;  it 
will  be  a  terrible  storm." 

"  I  think  not,  Bettine;  and  it  may  not 
strike  us  for  hours." 

Just  then  a  little  wave  sprang  up  and 
flung  itself  with  an  angry  plash  against 
the  shore.  Bettine  threw  back  her  face  to 
the  murky  sky,  then  turned  to  the  dark 
ening  water  ;  she  watched  the  phospho 
rescent  light  along  the  shore,  a  white  line 
growing  around  her  tremulous,  shut  lips. 

"  But  the  ghost,  grandsire,  the  ghost !  " 
she  cried,  defying  the  boding  storm.  "  I 
give  up  the  bells  of  Fairyland,  but  I  must 
have  a  ghost." 

"  It  was  the  loneliest  of  lonely  places," 
so  I  resumed  my  story.  "  My  beat  ran 
along  the  edge  of  a  creek  which  was 
skirted  with  bushes,  and  picketed,  as  I 
very  well  knew,  by  the  enemy  ;  one  of 


2O  Bettine. 

their  bullets  was  likely  to  make  an  end 
of  me  at  any  minute.  This  kept  my 
eyes  wide  open,  though  I  was  very  tired 
and  perishing  for  sleep." 

"And  all  at  once  you  saw — 

"All  at  once  I  saw,  but  a  few  feet  away, 
two  fiery  eyes  fixed  full  upon  me.  I 
think  my  hair  stood  up,  Bette." 

"  Yes,  yes! " 

"  We  glared  at  each  other  for  a  second 
— a  second  that  seemed  an  hour — and 
neither  my  eyes  nor  the  eyes  of  fire 
moved." 

"And  then — what  happened  then?" 

A  wave  larger  and  more  sullen  than  the 
other  crashed  against  the  shore  ;  a  fiercer 
flash  of  lightning  bathed  in  fire  the  dim 
landscape  and  the  dingy  sea ;  a  long- 
drawn,  angry  roar  of  thunder  told  that 
the  tempest  soon  would  break. 

Bettine  sprang  forward  and  the  wind 
caught  her  long  hair. 

"  It  will  be  a  fearful  storm,  grandsire  ?  " 

"It  may  be." 


Bettine.  2  r 

"  Boats  will  be  dashed  against  the  shore ; 
wrecked  and  swamped  in  the  sea?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"  You  say  '  perhaps  '  so  calmly,  but  I 
know  your  heart,  dear  sire,"  she  said, 
with  shaking  voice.  "  Go  on,  go  on," 
she  commanded,  then,  and  fell  back 
shivering  upon  my  arm. 

"Where  was  I?  Oh!  the  eyes.  Well, 
I  faced  them,  and  said  as  bravely  as  I 
could:  'Advance  and  give  the  counter 
sign  !  '  There  was  no  answer,  and  I 
called  out  sharply  :  '  Speak  !  or  I  '11 
shoot!'  Still  no  answer  came,  and,  aft 
er  waiting  another  minute  or  two,  I 
raised  my  musket  and  blazed  away,  aim 
ing  between  those  two  burning  eyes. 
When  the  smoke  cleared,  I  saw  three 
eyes  glaring  at  me,  where  there  had  been 
two.  Then  I  was  scared." 

"Yes,  yes;  grandsire,  of  course  you 
were." 

"As  soon  as  I  could  load  I  fired  again, 
and  then  four  eyes  glared  at  me,  instead 


22  Bettine. 

of  three.  Then  the  pickets  came  run 
ning  up  from  all  sides  and  the  camp 
awoke  behind  me.  We  had  a  lively  time 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  then  we  made  a 
formal  advance  upon  the  spot  where  the 
four  eyes  still  gleamed." 

"Then  to  your  horrified  sight — " 

"  Then  to  our  horrified  sight  appeared 
the  tall  stump  of  a  tree,  old,  decayed,  and 
with  the  bark  still  clinging  loosely  to  its 
trunk.  I  had  been  shooting  at  the  holes 
where  the  fox-fire  shone  through,  and,  of 
course,  making  another  fierj7  eye  with 
every  shot." 

"And  is  that  all?" 

"That  is  all." 

Bettine  stood  before  me  tall  and  straight, 
her  arms  folded  behind  her  back. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  sire,"  she 
said.  "You  are  laughing  at  me." 

"  I  am  not  laughing,  Bettine ;  but  if  my 
story  must  have  a  moral,  let  it  be  this: 
There  is  nothing  to  fear  in  God's  uni- 


Bettine.  23 

verse.  The  fear  of  the  L,ord  may  be  the 
beginning  of  wisdom,  but  fear  of  any 
thing  which  the  L,ord  has  created  is  the 
beginning  and  continuation  of  foolish 
ness.  Surely,  my  child,  you  have  need 
of  no  lesson  such  as  this." 

But  Bettine  walked  grandly  off  to  the 
shore,  where  the  little  waves  were  dash 
ing  in  strongly  over  the  shells  and  sand. 
Presently  she  came  flying  back. 

"  Grandsire !  O,  the  wind  is  coming! 
What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

She  paced  the  narrow  porch  like  one 
distraught,  her  dark  hair  swirling  in  the 
rising  gale.  She  wrung  her  hands  with 
broken  little  cries  of  terror — the  very 
reflection  of  the  waves  and  sky.  Just 
then  a  mellow  whistle  came  from  the 
fringe  of  bushes  along  the  garden  wall — 
"  Whip-poor-will !  whip-poor-will !  " 

"  lyisten,  child,"  I  said  ;  "  the  birds  are 
at  the  mercy  of  the  tempest  and  they  are 
not  disturbed." 


24  Bettine. 

"Ah,  yes!  ah,  yes  !"  she  cried ;  "but 
Hugo—" 

"Well,"  I  broke  in  sharply,  "what 
about  Hugo  ?" 

"  He  is  out  in  his  skiff!  and  you  have 
said  there  may  be  wrecks  upon  the  shore ! 
and  the  sea  will  wash  them  up — men,  I 
mean,  drowned — 

"Pish!  Hugo  is  safe  at  home,  or,  if 
not,  this  hatful  of  wind  will  only  help 
him  in.  Don't  be  foolish,  Bettine." 

"  But  I  sent  him." 

"  He  need  n't  have  gone." 

The  wind  increased,  and  with  it  the 
girl's  distress ;  she  clung  and  coiled  about 
me,  ghastly  pale,  with  chattering  teeth. 

"  Grandsire,  I  must  know  if  he  is  safe 
at  home!" 

Then  I  said  brutally:  "  Perhaps  you 
would  have  me  row  across  the  cove  ? 
There  is  still  some  strength  in  my  right 
arm,  and  it  is  a  safer  journey  for  my  old 
bones  than  for  Hugo's  young  ones." 


Bettine.  25 

"  Sire,  you  are  cruel,"  said  Bettine, 
"  but  I  will  not  be  angry.  It  was  in  my 
mind  that  you  might  allow  old  Bluet  to 
go  around  by  land."  Even  in  her  an 
guish,  there  was  a  touch  of  Bettine's 
sweet  dignity  in  this  that  went  to  my 
heart,  but  I  shook  my  head  slowly. 

"  No,  no,  my  child.  You  would  be 
certain  to  repent  of  such  a  confession  as 
soon  as  the  storm  is  over." 

I  folded  my  trembling  girl  close,  and 
told  her  another  story,  a  story  full  of 
youth  and  joyousness,  in  the  days  when 
her  mother  played  about  my  knee  in  our 
own  sweet,  sunny  France.  Gradually 
she  became  quiet,  and  when  the  storm 
was  at  its  height  she  was  sleeping,  dear 
babe,  against  my  breast. 


It  was  but  a  passing  squall  after  all, 
as  brief  as  severe,  and  the  morning  that 
followed  was  heavenly.  No  wrecks  were 
swept  ashore,  and  the  sun  shot  his  first 


26  Bettine. 

level  rays  across  the  plain  of  waters,  as 
smooth  and  green  as  any  fair  meadow. 
The  air  was  fresh  and  sweet,  and  all  the 
scene  bathed  in  a  blest  tranquillity,  as 
though  tempests  never  raged. 

Bettine,  too,  had  forgotten. 

"  I  will  send  old  Bluet  to  ask  about 
Hugo,"  I  remarked. 

"Assuredly  you  will  not,"  she  said, 
with  unnecessary  emphasis. 

"  But  he  may  have  been — " 

"  Do  not  tease  me,  sire.  There  is  no 
such  good  luck  for  either  of  us." 

And  she  pinned  a  dripping  spray  of 
briar  to  my  jacket  and  gave  my  cheek 
a  condescending  pat. 

Hugo  came  while  yet  the  sun  was 
far  from  high,  but  Bettine  was  not  ready 
to  be  reconciled. 

"  You  are  all  so  tiresome,"  I  heard 
her  say  in  a  new  and  exasperating  drawl, 
"  it  is  best  to  be  able  to  put  you  off  like 
an  old  glove." 

Hugo  looked  at  her  a  moment,  dumb 


Bet  line.  27 

with  rage  or  misery,  then  sprang  into 
his  boat. 

Now  Bettine  was  herself  again  ;  a  re 
flection  of  the  sunlit  sea  and  sky,  only 
in  this  instance  I  fancied  the  reflection 
was  somewhat  exaggerated.  Her  gaiety 
seemed  to  lack  the  true  spontaneity  of 
nature.  I  could  trace  some  of  the  im 
perfections  of  an  imitation.  She  sang, 
she  laughed,  she  danced  like  the  little 
waves.  And  the  next  morning  she  came 
to  me  with  a  downcast  face. 

"  I  had  a  dream  last  night,  sire." 

"Well?" 

"  I  have  been  day-dreaming  ever  since, 
and  wondering  if  I  would  do  in  reality 
what  I  did  in  my  sleep." 

"And  you  want  my  opinion,  which, 
very  likely,  will  settle  your  mind  upon 
exactly  the  opposite  opinion." 

"  I  can  tell  you,  grandsire,  you  are  so 
old,  and  you  know  so  much  about  men — 
and  about  women,  too,  don't  you,  grand- 
sire  ?  " 


2  8  Bet  tine. 

What  need  she  to  know  about  men 
and  women,  my  little  Bette  ? 

"  It  brings  bad  luck  to  tell  dreams,1'  I 
said. 

"But  you  know  me  so  much  better 
than  I  know  myself,  dear  sire,"  said 
Bettine,  and  she  faced  me  in  arrestive 
fashion,  as  he  who  "  stoppeth  one  of 
three,"  desperately  brave  to  tell  the 
worst,  but  with  a  blush  which  proclaimed 
that  worst  divine.  The  blush  was  heav 
enly  beautiful,  but  I  felt  a  thrill  of  fear 
lest  it  had  lost  me  my  little  Bette. 

"  I  was  dreaming  of  Hugo,"  she  be 
gan  rapidly,  with  little  catches  of  breath 
now  and  then,  "  and  my  sleep  was  full  of 
trouble.  We  could  not  understand  each 
other,  and  Hugo  sprang  into  his  boat  and 
away — and  the  sea  went  out  with  him. 
The  cove  was  a  bed  of  dry  pebbles,  with 
little  lights  coming  out  here  and  there. 
I  could  see  the  brown  crabs  crawling 
among  the  shells  and  stones,  and  beyond 


Bettine.  3 1 

was  the  great  green  wave,  like  a   wall, 
and  Hugo  in  his  boat  on  its  crest." 

"A  fit  of  indigestion,  Bettine." 

"  Listen,  sire ;  you  have  not  heard. 
Hugo  stretched  out  his  arms  to  me  and 
cried,  'Help,  help  !  Bettine,  help  ! '  and  I 
ran  across  the  dry  cove  to  him.  The 
brown  crabs  snapped  their  claws  against 
my  bare  feet,  but  I  did  not  feel  them.  I 
was  crying,  '  Hugo,  Hugo ! '  all  the  way. 
Then,  with  a  great  leap,  he  stood  beside 
me,  and  the  huge  green  wave  had 
doubled  on  us.  '  We  must  run  for  our 
lives,'  shouted  Hugo,  and  so  we  did. 
But  the  terrible  wave  swept  after  us,  it 
towered  above  our  heads,  it  was  breaking 
over  us  !  I  could  have  outrun  it  even 
then,  but  Hugo  seemed  scarcely  to  move. 
Then  with  one  arm  I  pushed  him  toward 
the  shore,  and  with  the  other  held  back 
the  wave  until  it  broke — and  swept  me 
away.  Sire,  sire !  would  I  do  that  for 
Hugo?" 


32  Bettine. 

"  You  would  sacrifice  yourself  for  the 
man  you  love." 

"And  must  I  do  that  for  Hugo?  " 

"  You  must  not ;  you  shall  not !  And 
you  need  have  no  fears  for  that  young 
man,  Bettine  ;  he  will  take  care  of  him 
self.  Child,  child  !  cease  this  idle  dream 
ing.  Come  to  your  senses." 

"  I  know,  grandsire,  that  you  do  not 
like  Hugo." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  me,  and  I 
— with  the  tears  in  my  eyes  I  could  well 
have  shaken  her. 


Hugo  discovered,  in  some  inscrutable 
way,  that  he  was  to  be  pardoned,  and 
came  back,  all  their  quarrels  ending  in 
a  renewal  of  love.  They  sailed  and 
sailed  together,  looking,  Bettine  told  me, 
for  the  lights  in  the  bottom  of  the  cove. 
They  walked  and  walked  together  when 
the  sea  was  tumultuous.  It  was  youth 
and  ignorance  enchanted  with  youth  and 


Bettine,  35 

ignorance,  as  senselessly  happy  as  young 
birds  in  pairing  time. 

I  could  see  the  stealthy  serpent  in 
their  fool's  paradise ;  but  I  am  old,  as  Bet- 
tine  has  said  ;  I  have  learned  to  bide  my 
time. 

Man  does  not  bend  the  earth,  the 
earth  bends  man;  or,  rather,  the  power 
which  rules  the  earth  rules  man  as  well  ; 
and  he  who  cannot  ally  his  strength  to 
that  of  the  universe  and  gain  inspiration 
from  its  great  hidden  fount,  he  who  is 
incapable  of  response  to  the  pulse  at 
nature's  heart,  has  not  awakened  to  self- 
consciousness.  Until  the  time  of  such 
awakening  he  must  remain  a  poor  creat 
ure,  at  war  within  himself  and  out  of 
harmony  with  the  highest  in  nature. 

As  to  Hugo,  he  had  inherited  so  richly 
from  a  hardy  ancestry  that  he  seemed 
some  fair  young  Norseland  god,  cameo- 
faced,  clean-limbed,  massive,  powerful, 
fleet  of  foot,  and  deft  of  hand.  He  was 
slow  in  the  mental  processes,  quite  help- 


36  Bettine. 

less  before  those  subtle  quips  and  gibes 
which  are  the  natural  language  of  one 
like  my  Bettine;  but  this  served,  in  the 
end,  to  excite  the  girl's  compassion.  She 
melted  with  honest  pity  at  sight  of  this 
great  hulk  of  a  fellow  who  could  not  do 
at  all  what  her  nimble  wits  were  con 
stantly  leading  her  to  do  without  a  con 
scious  effort.  More  than  this,  his  heavi 
ness  and  stupidity  were  somehow  haloed 
and  gilded  by  her  imagination  into  a  sem 
blance  of  the  rarest  qualities,  magnan 
imous  silence,  reserved  force — I  know 
not  what  of  dignity  and  power. 


I  have  always  felt  profoundest  pity  for 
the  woman  who  insists  upon  decorating 
the  head  of  the  ass  with  flowers  ;  but, 
unless  one  is  possessed  of  the  wand  of 
Oberon  wherewith  to  open  her  eyes,  how 
can  one  help  her? 

It  was  slow  torture  to  me  to  see  my 
dazzling  child  of  the  sun  degenerating 


Bettine.  37 

into  a  mere  reflection  of  this  dull  clod. 
Already  his  shadow  fell  across  her  like 
an  eclipse,  and  she  had  almost  ceased  to 
be  Bettine. 

Ah!  but  just  here  appears  the  merit 
of  the  lover.  The  guardian  or  friend 
often  longs  to  dispel  the  illusioning 
mists,  but  pity  stays  his  hand ;  then  it  is 
that  the  object  of  adoration  himself  as~ 
sumes  the  attitude  of  a  preceptor.  Leave 
him  alone  and  he  will  certainly  enlighten 
the  infatuated  worshiper  as  to  the  amal 
gam  of  which  her  idol  is  composed. 


The  wind  was  strong  one  night  and 
Hugo  had  not  gone  home.  The  sea  was 
dark,  except  where  the  waves  were 
broken  into  light  against  the  rocks.  We 
sat  upon  the  little  veranda,  almost  like  a 
narrow  shelf  overhanging  the  sea,  with 
the  cottage  behind  us  trembling  at  every 
blast.  We  were  enveloped  in  mist  from 
the  waves  which  were  torn  into  spray 


38  Bettine. 

and  cast  off  by  the  rocks.  It  was  a  night 
worth  an  hundred  days  of  calm.  We 
could  not  talk,  for  the  roar  and  boom  of 
the  ocean  drowned  our  thin  voices,  and 
so,  hour  after  hour,  we  sat  in  charmed 
silence,  Bettine  with  her  face  upon  my 
arm,  and  Hugo  lying  against  her  feet. 
Suddenly  the  girl  sprang  up  : 

"Hugo!  grandsire !  listen;  voices  are 
calling  us !  " 

A  light  was  shining  brightly  from  an 
upper  window,  where  I  kept  it  always 
burning  at  night,  and  it  might  be  that 
some  boat  in  distress  was  making  toward 
us.  Listening  keenly,  I  fancied  that  I 
could  discern  faint  calls  for  help  piercing 
the  tempest's  thunder,  and  in  an  interval 
of  the  blast  I  could  make  oath  I  heard 
a  woman's  fearful  shriek.  I  was  on  my 
feet  and  Bettine  wTas  twisting  a  long 
shawl  tightly  about  her  head  and 
shoulders,  girding  it  well  at  the  waist. 

"Where  is  the  long-boat  ?  "    Her  voice 


Bettine.  39 

rang  out  clear  and  strong,  like  a  captain's 
"Ship  ahoy!" 

"  No  small  boat  can  live  in  this  sea," 
I  said. 

"It  would  be  certain  death,"  said 
Hugo  ;  but  she  seized  his  hand. 

"  Now  for  a  dash  !  "  she  cried.  "  You 
are  to  stand  on  the  shore,  sire,  ready  for 
whatever  comes.  Hugo  and  I  can  man 
age  the  boat." 

Hugo  argued  and  protested,  but  she 
led  him  on  protesting.  I  pulled  down 
the  boat  and  she  sprang  in,  and  Hugo, 
with  but  an  instant's  pause,  followed, 
and  the  boat  went  out  on  a  great  reced 
ing  run  of  the  sea.  I  watched  them 
through  the  spray,  now  on  the  top  of  a 
tall  wave,  now  under  the  next ;  then  I 
saw  them  no  more.  A  moment  of  wild 
suspense  and  the  empty  boat  was  thrown 
high  upon  the  beach.  Hugo  came  in  on 
the  next  wave :  plunging  forward,  he 
cleared  the  surf  and  stood  pale  and  drip 
ping. 


4O  Bettine. 

"  Bettine  !  where  is  Bettine?"  I  cried, 
outshrieking  the  tempest  in  my  fren/.y. 
"  Bettine  !  my  little  Bette  !  "  and  a  faint 
voice  answered  : 

"  Hugo  !  Hugo  !  " 

"Yes;  here,  Bettine!"  I  answered, 
and  sprang  into  the  pounding  water.  I 
caught  her  as  a  huge  wave  laid  hold  upon 
her.  I  tore  her  from  its  clutches  and 
dragged  her  ashore,  flung,  both  of 
us,  headlong  upon  the  sand. 

She  was  faint  and  gasping,  but  un 
daunted.  After  a  moment  her  voice 
rang  out  once  more  : 

"  We  must  try  again,  Hugo.  Where 
is  the  boat?  " 

But  he  stood  his  ground. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  Bettine." 

"  They  must  not  drown.  Come,  Hugo  ; 
come  with  me."  She  begged  more  in 
pantomime  than  by  words,  for  the  roar 
and  crash  were  deafening. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  useless,  Bettine." 

"  For  my  sake,  then,  dear   Hugo — for 


Bettine.  43 

the  love  we  bear  each  other,"  she  plead 
with  heavenly  insistence,  her  white,  bare 
arms  gleaming  as  they  encircled  him; 
but  Hugo's  only  answer  was  a  dogged 
shake  of  the  head. 

"  You  will  not  go?  And  my  grandsire, 
with  the  bullet  in  his  shoulder — it  is  he 
who  saved  me  !  But  what  can  he  do 
against  this  sea  ?  Ah!  I  will  go  alone." 

She  ran  to  the  boat,  high  up  on  the 
beach  and  full  of  water.  She  tried  to 
pull  it  down,  her  wet  petticoats  wrap 
ping  and  clinging  about  her.  Then  she 
stood  still  and  wailed  out  piteously, 
"  You  have  no  heart,  Hugo.  You  never 
have  loved  me."  And  weeping  bitterly 
I  led  her  into  the  house. 


No  wrecks  were  washed  ashore  that 
night,  no  dead  were  found  upon  the 
strand.  Who  it  was  that  called  to  us  for 


44  Bettine. 

help  we  never  knew.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
it  was  but  some  vagary  of  the  wind  and 
waves. 

But,  through  wind  and  waves,  the 
eyes  of  poor  Bettine  were  opened  and 
she  became — a  woman. 

I  dare  say  I  ought  to  be  grateful  to 
this  particular  lover  for  the  lesson  he  so 
effectively  taught  my  girl,  and  perhaps, 
considering  all  the  circumstances,  I  am. 
But  this  becoming  a  woman  brings  with 
it  more  or  less  of  conventionality,  a  cer 
tain  degree  of  conformity  to  type,  and  I 
cannot  convince  myself  that  this  is  an 
improvement.  I  was  quite  content  with 
Bettine  as  she  was. 

To-day  I  overheard  my  girl  soliloqui/- 
ing,  and  that  I  did  not  like.  "  I  fan 
cied,"  so  she  said,  "  I  quite  fancied 
for  a  time  that  I  loved  Hugo,  but 
that  was  all  a  sad  mistake.  It  was  a  hero 
I  adored,  a  hero  of  my  own  making,  not 


Bettine.  45 

a  common,  coarse,  selfish  man,  such  as 
Hugo."  She  then  shook  her  head  slowly 
and  sadly,  like  a  very  wise  old  woman 
— my  little  Bette  ! — and  then  she  said  : 
"All  idols  have  clay  feet." 


Can  she  forget,  and  still  go  flitting  and 
forgetting  ? 

This  morning  her  hair  went  all  un 
bound  ;  her  heart-shaped  mouth  made 
moan — and  hope  fell  low.  At  noon  she 
was  sage ;  she  spake  wise  things  darkly, 
as  speaks  the  oracle — and  hope  died. 
She  let  the  lapping  wavelets  kiss  her  feet, 
and,  looking  far  into  the  faint  beyond, 
she  talked  in  world-wise  platitudes,  after 
a  footlight  fashion  I  abhor : 

To-night  she  wears  a  rose  and  mumbles 
rhymes,  my  child,  guileless  of  book-craft ! 


The  heart  that  weaves  its  fine  emotions 
into  rhythmic  sounds,  striking  the  chords 


46 


Bettine. 


upon  its  own  untuned  strings,  this  heart 
love  yet  may  break,  but  has  not  broken 
— and  hope  stirs  in  her  shroud. 


A     000  551  561     4 


